My Aunt Genile passed away recently. Her death was long expected and even announced as imminent some months prior, but she fooled us all and held out longer than anticipated. To herself no doubt, her death came as a relief, for she had frequently expressed her frustration at the limitations she labored under following a stroke a few years back. Had she had her way, her death may have come much sooner. But though Genile found her reduced abilities in speech and action galling, her enforced restrictions left their own gift.
Had you interacted with my aunt prior to her stroke, you would have been hard-pressed to keep up—whatever the activity. Even two open-heart surgeries did little to slow the dynamo she was. Her tongue, her wits, and her body all moved at top speed, all day long. Being around her for extended periods could be dizzying, even tiring for more sedentary souls. Just listening to her talk could even be an exercise for some. So rapidly did her mind work that her tongue didn’t always keep up; it seemed she could scarcely finish expressing one thought before galloping off to the next. Little wonder that she married a very quiet man, one who gave her all the space she needed to express those thoughts that shot like lightening through her brain. Had she married someone more given to speech than Elwin, I don’t know if it would have worked.
I think part of what contributed to that outpouring of energy was that physically, Genile was small. At her funeral, several commented on how incredible it was that such a tiny body could contain such energy. They shouldn’t have been too surprised, as most of the speakers had children, and their description of Genile should have reminded them of when their own children were small. Maybe this explains the mystery—perhaps, she was just a hyperactive child who never really outgrew that phase of life, just as her body grew only slightly taller. Certainly, she retained her sense of child-like joy and expressiveness, right up to the end. It was probably this that also made her such a favorite of children, of all ages. I’m sure it was what made her my favorite aunt the whole time I was growing up. There are few adults willing to really play with children. Those who do take the time often retain a certain detachment, a certain “adultness” that separates them from their charges. Such was not the case with Genile. Her joi de vivre was just as real and authentic as any child’s, no matter the game—and she taught us many. She was invested in every activity, at a level very few adults can achieve with children. For instance, she took just as much pleasure in teaching us childish sayings as we did in repeating them. One in particular still rings in my ears, as it was directed at me: “Tattle-tale, tattle-tale, sitting on the bull’s tail, when the bull begins to pee, then you’ll have a cup of tea!” I’m not sure where she got such an outlandish expression, as I’ve never heard it from anyone who did not hear it from Genile. Perhaps she made it up herself.
At her funeral though, I saw that her suffering had given her a gift. Although my aunt had always been a kind and generous person, what was mentioned there, and what my cousin Jenn told me through her tears, was just how grateful Genile became for everything done for her, which near the end, needed to be just about everything. I myself witnessed in my visits with her in the months prior to her passing her near silent mouthing of that word, an effort in itself, since her stroke had affected her ability to speak. But if Genile could no longer do most things for herself, not even to speak clearly and well those thoughts that still zipped around inside her head, she could muster that one word, and she used it very generously, for any small thing one did. This was the sweetness her constraints gave her as a gift—an enriching and deepening of her already considerable gratitude. Like the rest of her pre-stroke life, she gave this effort her full attention, and her expression of thanks was not a mere mouthing, the whole energy of her body was pressed into its service. She was as invested in this thanks-giving, as she ever was in fun and games in happier times.
But this is not the entire point of this article. What expressed itself at her funeral most fully was not a sadness at our separation from her blithe spirit, but rather a celebration of a life well-lived. Hers was a life of rich adventure and great service. She had lived in several foreign countries and acquired almost as many languages in the course of her life, experiences and accomplishments she clearly enjoyed. Several of those foreign experiences were as a missionary with her husband. But she did not need to go abroad to be of service. Several at the funeral or in private conversations spoke of her continual small efforts on others’ behalf—such as watching children, baking bread, or cleaning a sick person’s kitchen, merely because she saw a need, and because she could. Such a life of effort in the service of others and of something bigger than oneself creates a character that becomes refined every so subtly over time, and results in a light that while invisible to the one living that life, yet shines out for others to see. This is how death then can contain sweetness—it can reveal to us the full beauty and sweetness of that life of which were are perforce made more aware by its absence. This is the kind of life Genile led, and this is what makes us miss her. She did not live for herself alone, though she took great joy in living—she lived also to serve. But it is in her response to those services provided to her in her waning that we see her beauty most clearly—in that simple “thank you” which, near the end, she could barely make heard. I hear her “thank you” still, and answer “thank you” back again. Genile, you will be missed.
